


The Face

by CertainlyNotAWriter



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertainlyNotAWriter/pseuds/CertainlyNotAWriter
Summary: As he lays with a prostitute, an old man talks about his waiter gig in Tokyo during the 80s.





	

**The Face**

 

The face. The face is all that everybody needs to see. Nobody cares about what's inside. Besides, it's outside my professional capacity.

I was a waiter for a small Italian restaurant in Roppongi. At that time, the lost decade that was the nineties was still far-off, so people could still afford to eat out for all meals of the day. Needless to say, business was good; reservations piled up so much that we started reserving customers for the next three or four days. And these customers, they were the embodiment of the bourgeois—pampered, upper middle-class yuppies and executives that were so enamored with that 'service with a smile' vibe everybody seemed to be so crazy with those days. People were so desperate for love that they were willing to pay good money even just for the professional imitation...

Where was I? Sorry; it's this brandy. It tastes like gasoline. How do you people manage to live with this gut rot? Smile all you want; I may not be that much of a drinker, but I do know what good brandy is. And this is not good brandy. You know what? Let me throw this out. Liquor like this does not deserve to be served in a talk such as ours.

Here we are. My good man Johnnie Walker. You must forgive me; I could only afford the red label... Why, no, please, don't be shy! It's my own conscience that would be struck if I served such awful drink. In my own home, no less! I will not stand for it. Care for a glass? Here you go. Keep it in your mouth for a while. Tastes like silk, doesn't it? Definitely better than that trash we had earlier.

Well, where was I? Oh, yes, I told you that I was a waiter. In Roppongi. Yes, I used to wait tables for the elite. Well, not really for the elite but rather tasteless cads who wanted to bask in the illusion that they were sophisticated and urbane. Do you think there is something urbane in drinking a martini at 12 o' clock noon? You don't? Finally, someone with sense! That's what I like about you Filipinos, you and your Christian--er, Catholic, rather. Sorry, sometimes I can't tell the difference, really. I'm a deist. What's a deist? That's not important; what's important was I had to hold this professional smile while serving these people.

A plate of spaghetti aglio e olio? Smile. Teaching them how to eat mussels? Smile. Opening and pouring a bottle of 1985 Chardonnay? Smile. If they had something to say, like, their opinions on the lackluster mess of government that was the Japanese Diet, or their stories about the slapstick that was the student movement, then I would nod and agree and care. But I didn't care, really. Most of what they said about how to de-cork wine bottles came in one ear and out of the next. The idiots didn't even know how to pour the damned things, but I suppose they weren't really concerned with such—perfection in such useless things like pouring wine is only one of the many obsessions the middle-class is famous for. Sometimes it makes me think that the middle-class are the real scum of the earth—real lucifers we all are, plotting against those high up so we can take seats on their thrones. Oh, I really must apologize; trailing off is such an annoying habit of mine. If I happen to trail off again, would you be so kind as to slap me when I do? Not a hard one, please; just one of those affectionate kinds you women do all of the time. Have it sting enough just to wake me from excess sophistry, but not so much as to deform my ego. Please, mine is such a fragile one, at my age. Even a simple push sends it all crashing down. Not all of us can maintain a face of confidence as good as you ladies can.

Anyway, I had to show this face. A 'professional' face, as I would like to call it. To show happiness when you feel otherwise, to smile when you feel otherwise. If course you and I understand that this is a part of the game of life—it seems that everybody already knew and accepted this rule before I did. I knew, but I couldn't accept it. It was the disgusted idealist in me shouting, 'Blasphemy!' at the top of his lungs that was stopping me. Still, I did it. I continued to do my work as a server of smiles, a waiter of late-stage capitalism. A man has to put food on his own table by putting in an honest day's work, of course.

Now let me tell you about the people that I worked with there. We were many employees for such a small restaurant, but I could only remember three. Most people are forgettable, as you know. The head chef was a real European man, but he wasn't Italian; he was French. Well, he was born in Corsica so I suppose he can count as Italian. But what does his nationality matter to us now? He was a good chef... Ah, I remember now! He was fat! Remember this, darling: to know if a chef is a decent enough cook, it only suffices to know that he is fat. A man who cooks has to grow fat tasting his creations and perfecting his technique. Anyway, he was a disgusting man. I once saw him spit into his handkerchiefs and leave them to dry out in the back. Our manager was a Jap. A little fellow, he was. Wore glasses and was always hunched over with a stack of papers in his hands. Well-meaning, but he was always holed up in that office of his, so I didn't know much about him. But efficient! Very efficient those Japs are. Poor fellows, all of them though. In their country, it's the impossible that's always expected of you. Being superhuman is as normal as breathing for them. Those who can't keep up are left in the dust. I wonder how I was able to survive. Then again, look at how decrepit I am. So maybe I haven't. Ha-ha!

Finally, there was my co-waiter. Yes, I had a co-waiter. What, did you think I could handle serving ravioli in anchovy sauce to five tables at the same time on my own? Of course not. This waiter was a girl, a part-timer. But any help was appreciated. If I could recall anything about her, it was that she was beautiful. How beautiful? My words are useless to describe her now; I've totally erased her face from memory. All I see now are shadows in the back of my eyes. Why, of course you're more beautiful than she was, darling! But that's not important. What is important was the look on her face. Docile, like an attentive pup. It struck me as a little dim, really. But maybe I was just afraid of the mind behind that face, beyond the first impressions. Look at my face. What do you see? An old man, but there is still some light behind this face! Maybe this is my greatest flaw; I suspect everybody of my worst qualities.

Anyway, I never talked to her. Not even once. If anything, the most I could afford was a side-glance while pouring a demiglace sauce on chicken, or a peek from the edge of some furtive corner while polishing wine glasses. Sometimes, I would gaze upon the dining floor and keep her in my peripheral vision. I wasn't really staring at her, but she was always a blurred piece of light, like observing her through falling water...

What is that face for? Come on, you're smiling; tell me why. No, I didn't—all right, I did. She was beautiful; of course I’d fall for her. But I was afraid; women always set me off, causing my fall from grace. All the Eves to my Adam. The reason I quit my job as a manager in Perth? A woman. The reason I moved out of Montebello? A woman. The reason I quit the Consulate in Tokyo? A woman. All women! Women were conspiring against me at every turn, women involved with me in tempestuous affairs they didn't even know that they were a part of.

Yes, I suppose you know what I am getting at. I was pathetic with them. That is why _you're_ here.

Why didn't I date her? I'd drink this whole bottle and I still wouldn't be finished telling you the reasons. If I made it short, though, it was because I was old. I was somewhere around my late twenties at that time. She? Oh, I don't know. Maybe early twenties? I never asked. I thought I was too old. And by then, I had sworn women off; they destroyed whatever sense of self-confidence I had. I was struggling to resist. Anyway, I contented myself with just looking at her, but never speaking a word. I was old enough to know that my suffering couldn’t get any worse.

So I continued pacing myself in my own professional capacity, waiting tables by day, doing counseling by night. I was a licensed marriage counselor in Japan, I'll have you know. Imagine that: me telling a happy couple how to balance their time at work in order to spend time together, when I myself couldn't get my own partner. I won't ask you to imagine the pain I felt, though. You won't understand. Try to, and I might just hit you. Why are you having that face? I jest, of course! I jest.

Anyway, the waiter job was just something to fill my time and to line my pockets. But it was taxing, I tell you. Being surrounded by the worst kind of idiots, the ones who pretend to be smart, grates on the body. Your complexion becomes wan, your teeth go yellow.  You lose your faith in humanity and become bitter. An unhealthy way to live, I tell you. Naturally, I took to smoking. An expensive habit, but besides from earning money, it was the only thing that kept me sane. So here I was, smoking at the back of the restaurant. It had been a busy day, so we had more waiters than needed on the shift. I could take a rest. I was on my fifth or sixth stick when the girl came out, probably to take a breather from all the action. Now, you have to understand that my professional capacity extended to my coworkers. Actually, not even just my coworkers, even my closest friends. My family were the first people I had practiced it on. Yes, yes, I know. There is something wrong with me. But when you are too deep into being what is expected of you, you find that there is no turning back. I think that also applies to your line of work as well, miss. Many people expect you to act as what you are. How you act is what you are, after all. No, don't say anything about yourself. I do not indulge in putting myself on a pedestal to hear the weaknesses of others. I am not god. I don't want the responsibility.

Anyway, the girl was there, and she was a coworker, so I gave her the whole professional treatment. We talked about trivial things; the new loan she had, what she thinks about the chef's cooking (which both of us were in full accord), even the weather. I barely talked about myself because I knew better than to do that. I'd never be content with the reactions I get. It was a normal, simple talk, and she went back inside a few minutes later. I on the other hand had my seventh stick, and that was when it hit me. A vast melancholy had come; something inside my body had died.

That very afternoon, I talked to the manager, the hunched-over chap. Why was I going to quit? Because I wanted to. But you've been here for two years! I just wanted to quit. The man even offered me a promotion to head waiter, but I insisted. I wasn't going to fit in with these youngsters, I said, or something to that effect.

Anyway, I quit the next day. I dropped the counselor racket too. Nothing was there for me in Tokyo, so I moved again. First, to Hokkaido, then to Taipei, until I found myself here in your country. Puerto Galera is such nice place, isn't it? Cheap and tasteless, but nice. Still, even if it's been twenty years I still wonder what that girl thought of when she heard of my quitting. Probably nothing at all; she barely knew me. And that's why I am in despair. Do you know why some people commit suicide? It's because they hope that they can bear witness to their own eulogies. My thinking was like that when I left being a waiter. I wanted to hear the eulogy of my leaving, but only ended up with a hollow summary of my actions.

Now I envy youth. Youth is the quality of the living; everybody else that lacks youth is of the dead. I am of the dead. I was alive once, but now I am of the dead. Leaving that job, I committed suicide. You will, too, one day. Your line of work will not be suicide, though; it will be a slow, painful death. So please, leave this job when you have had your fill. Please, I beg you! I cannot stand to see such a flower wither and die. I must sound like a hypocrite to you now, don't I? Forgive me; I may be dead, but I still thirst for youth. I will settle even for its professional facsimile. I am no different than all of those people I served long ago, aren't I? Subjecting myself to nothing but debaucheries of the flesh. I don't think you understand a word I am saying now. Do you? You say yes, but I know that I can never fully encompass what I feel in what I say. I had been a face for so long. As I told you, I never liked talking about myself because I never become content with the reactions I get.

All right, I've talked enough. Please, get the bed ready. I will be with you once I've put this brandy away. Tomorrow morning, I'll make sure to pay for your fare. Surely I can get one of these bloody tricycle drivers to get you home for the correct price.

 

 

 

 


End file.
